


Eighteen

by codswallop



Category: Score: A Hockey Musical (2010)
Genre: M/M, OR IS IT, Spanking, Spanksgiving, Team Bonding, Unrequited Crush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-17
Updated: 2019-11-17
Packaged: 2021-02-08 02:01:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21468229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/codswallop/pseuds/codswallop
Summary: Some team bonding rituals are more homoerotic than Farley had ever imagined.
Relationships: Farley/Moose (pre-slash)
Comments: 41
Kudos: 31





	Eighteen

“Hey, it’s a team tradition.” Moose shrugged. “I don’t make the rules.”

“For real, though?” Farley looked around the post-practice locker room at a sea of nodding helmets. “An actual _spanking_?” Birthday spankings of any kind had never been part of the Gordon household, which was adamantly anti-corporal punishment even in jest. 

“With sticks, yeah, out on the ice. More of a paddling, I guess you’d say? Every rookie does it, their first year on the team,” Maurice told him. “It’s not so bad. I could almost walk normally again within a couple of days after mine.”

Farley whitened. “I’m guessing you guys don’t go in for love taps,” he said weakly. 

“Oh, hell, no,” said Dylan. “I’ve been counting down the days till your big one-eight. Can’t wait to put that lily-white ass in its place.” He mimed taking aim with his stick and delivering a slapshot.

Moose cuffed Dylan on the shoulder. “Don’t scare the kid. We’re not going to beat the shit out of you or anything, Gordon—it wouldn’t be in our best interests to incapacitate our best scorer the day before a game. Right, Blades?” He glared around the room and got a lot of mumbled _yeah, I guess_es and halfhearted _okay, fine_s.

It was hardly reassuring, but Farley really didn’t want to break with tradition. He’d made enough waves already, and his teammates were all good guys; he was sure they wouldn’t do him actual harm. Almost sure. He took a deep breath and drew himself up tall. “All right,” he said bravely. “My ass is yours, guys. Let’s get it over with,” and it was worth it when they all cheered and patted him on the helmet, or whatever parts of him they could reach, before heading out to the ice.

Maurice tossed him an extra pair of hockey pants. “Also a tradition for the birthday boy to put on as many layers as he can get between his skin and the tender mercies of his teammates,” he advised in an undertone. Farley took them, relieved that he wasn’t expected to bare himself for the ordeal; he hadn’t quite dared to ask.

*

So that was how Farley Gordon ended up spending the eighteenth hour of his eighteenth birthday bent over a bench that his teammates had dragged out onto the ice, while they skated around him in a circle and prepared to take aim, one at a time, with the blades of their sticks.

“One shot per man, no do-overs,” Moose called out. “Ready, Gordon?” Farley gave a thumbs-up and steadied himself for the first blow, unsure of what to expect. 

“I call first dibs,” someone hollered—Kevin, Farley thought—and a second later: _Wham!_ Even though he’d braced for it, it nearly tipped him over the bench, and knocked a completely undignified _uh!_ out of him. “One!” Kevin shouted in triumph.

Farley hardly had a chance to recover his balance before the second blow came. “Two!” Maurice called out, delivering another solidly aimed _whack_.

“Holy fuck!” Farley yelped, shocked into profanity, and his teammates roared their approval. 

As with all the Blades’ male bonding activities, Farley found it was best to give up all thoughts of dignity and really just abandon himself to it. After a few more stinging blows, though, he was hanging on to the bench for dear life, wondering how long it would take before his ass went numb. On _seven_, Erik delivered a smack that brought tears to Farley’s eyes and tore a sound from his throat that must have been alarming, because Moose called out “Time!” and skated up to him. 

“Hey,” he said, getting low in front of Farley’s face. “Hanging in there, kid?” 

Farley blinked away the tears. “‘Pain is not due to the thing itself, but to your estimate of it; and this you have the power to revoke at any moment,’” he gasped out in Latin. “Marcus Aurelius, _Meditations,_” he added, when Moose looked concerned. 

“Yeah, meditate yourself through it,” Moose agreed. “Do some of those deep-breathing thingamajigs you taught us. Only about a dozen more to go. Okay, men!” he shouted out. “How about taking it down just a notch? We need his ass to be able to skate tomorrow, don’t forget!”

The Blades sent up a groan of protest and a few boos, but the next few spanks he got were a little more bearable, Farley thought, or else his _ujjaya pranyama_ practice was working. He breathed from his belly, leaned into the bench, and tried to time his exhales for the rhythmic blows against his backside that...didn’t seem as punishing anymore, suddenly. He’d begun to feel warm. Being thrust again and again into the edge of the bench like this, surrounded by the echoing jeers and encouragement of his teammates, it almost felt...well, he’d never been spanked before, but there had to a be a reason, didn’t there, why it was one of the more common kinky sex practices?

So many things about team hockey were more homoerotic than Farley had ever dreamed possible. He ought to be used to it by now, but this was beyond disconcerting. 

Another blow, and another, and another. By the time Jack called out “Eighteeeeeeen!” and teased him with just a light tap when he was expecting a final, climactic, tooth-jarring smack, Farley was unmistakably more than half hard, and his bitten-off cry was partly one of disappointment. He released his grip on the bench, feeling shaky, and tried to think about the least erection-inducing thing possible—the photos he’d found of his parents’ recent getaway to Wreck Beach—until it was safe to lift his head.

_Whack!_ One last, unexpected spank lifted Farley up off the bench in shock and mortification, and he gave a strangled groan of pain and inappropriate arousal, which was luckily drowned out by the Blades’ thunderous tapping of their sticks against the ice in applause and approval. 

“And one to grow on,” Moose said proudly, and came to a perfect sweeping stop right in front of him. Farley had never been more glad to be wearing a cup. “You did it, kid. Took it like a man. Need a hand off the ice?”

“N-no,” Farley said, and wobbled to his feet, only to be swept off them again a moment later by a mass of cheering Blades. 

*

Half an hour later, when the locker room had finally cleared out, Farley gingerly eased down his pants, wincing, and craned his neck around to try to get a look at the damage in the mirror. His teammates had all clamoured for a view of his stripes, but he’d refused, blushing until his face was as brick-red as his behind must have been. At last they’d given up and left him alone, with a lot of single entendre about having finally popped his ass-cherry, and many heckling promises to take trophy photos in the shower tomorrow night.

A low whistle from the doorway made Farley freeze. “That’s gonna bruise up _real_ nice,” Moose said, and Farley quickly pulled his underwear back up to cover himself. “Ah, come on, it’s nothing I haven’t seen before. Came back to bring you this.” Moose pulled a little jar out of his jacket pocket and held it up for Farley to see: arnica gel. “Kind of awkward to put it on yourself; better let me,” Moose went on, and came right over and pulled the waistband of Farley’s boxers gently out and down. Paralyzed with shock, Farley let him do it; his muscles couldn’t figure out how to react. A single high-pitched sound made its way out of his throat, but its meaning was unclear even to him. It made Moose pause, though.

“All right?” Moose said, stepping back. “I mean, if you really don’t want me to, okay, but you’re gonna thank me for it later, trust me.”

“Um,” Farley said. “No, it’s...okay. Yeah. Thanks.” It wasn’t _that_ weird, he told himself. He’d been completely naked in front of the entire team more times than he could count; they’d witnessed practically all of each other’s bodily functions at this point; it was fine. Normal. Then the cool gel came into contact with the hot, highly sensitized skin of his ass, and Farley hissed loudly and flinched away in reflex.

“Come on, hold still,” Moose said, grabbing him by the hipbone with one huge, firm hand and rubbing the gel tenderly into his skin with the other. “Or I’ll have to turn you over my knee.” Farley froze again. Was he breathing normally? Was inhaling usually something he had to think about this much? What if he started to get hard again? He closed his eyes and tried to focus on his breath. “Good thing they went easy on you,” Moose said absently, still dabbing at the tender welts.

“That was going easy?” Farley’s voice rose and cracked, and he felt his face blush even hotter.

“Obviously. You’re the team pet, Gordon. The beaut. Plus, we can’t lose to the Dukes tomorrow. Not an option.”

“Right,” Farley managed. That was why Moose was doing this, he reminded himself. Taking care of the top-scoring player the Blades had; it only made sense. Like sharpening a skate blade or taping up your best stick. 

“Got any birthday plans for the evening?” Moose asked, as if it were possible to hold a casual conversation between two teammates while one of them was rubbing his fingers in warm, slick, gentle circles all over and around the skin of the other one’s ass.

“Um.” Farley tried to remember. “A late dinner out, yeah, with my...my…”

“Girlfriend? What’s her name again?”

Farley couldn’t immediately remember. “Um. Eve! No. She’s at a...thing. Cello. Something. Workshop. In Montreal. No, just my parents.” 

“Ditch ’em,” Moose suggested. “Come out for a few beers instead. With the team,” he clarified, after a pause that made Farley’s heart stop and then race madly.

“Can’t,” Farley said. “Not till next year. Eighteen, remember?” Was it really necessary to apply arnica for this long? He simultaneously wished fervently that this would end, and hoped it never would. Moose’s fingers dipped in lower, perilously near his crack, and Farley’s eyes widened. He bit his lower lip and willed his dick to behave.

“Always the law-abider, right,” Moose said. “How could I forget?” He stepped away abruptly and pulled Farley’s boxers carefully back up for him. “Okay. You’re good. Sleep on your stomach tonight and you’ll be fine by tomorrow, I bet—maybe just a little stiff.” He gave Farley a final pat on the behind that nearly ended him, and went over to the sink to wash his hands, whistling casually.

“Okay, I’m gonna...go,” Farley said, finding his voice again, hoping his legs would still carry him. “Thanks. I mean, no thanks, since you’re the one who brought this all on me. I can’t believe I told you it was my birthday today. You could have just kept it to yourself, you know.”

“And miss out on the opportunity to ruin that pretty ass?” Moose said, grinning back over his shoulder at him. “Have a good time with your parents, kid. See you tomorrow.” He dried off his hands, picked up his stick, gave Farley a casually rough one-armed hug and a smack on the forehead, and went out the door.

Farley’s knees gave out completely, and he sank onto a bench, then instantly got back up, wincing. 

“Hey,” Moose said, sticking his head back in the door. “You have to let me buy you a beer next year, okay? Okay. It’s a date. Put it on your calendar.” Then he vanished again. Farley sank back down on the bench again, and forced himself to stay there. 

The pain seemed a necessary distraction this time.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] Eighteen](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21542026) by [olive2pod (olive2read)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/olive2read/pseuds/olive2pod)


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